Russian Roulette
by Artie Fowl
Summary: So he asked the only thing he could, "Why?"


**1. russian roulette**

House stared at his now empty office, his pictures, his degrees, all gone, packed away in boxes he would probably never open again. He trailed his fingers along what used to be his desk, no longer his. The door, he noticed, had already been cleaned of his name, scraped away the day before probably.

He made his way into the room where he used to do his differentials and meet with his team, touched his white board, and with a small sigh, picked up the black marker thoughtfully before finally popping the cap off and attempting to write on it. He wrote slowly, deliberately, he was through with the words, but he couldn't remember how to spell it.

He couldn't remember how to spell it.

With a frustrated cry, he hurled the marker across the room, it clattered against his old office glass wall, leaving a black streak against it.

"So this is it, huh?"

House glanced up to see Wilson standing in the doorway, he edged his way in front of the white board.

Wilson continued, apparently not having noticed what he was so desperate to hide, "So, I go on leave for two weeks to mourn my loss, and I come back to find you leaving. Just like that."

"I guess no one told you."

"No one has to tell me you're a coward who runs away from his problems, I already knew that." He spat.

"I don't have any problems."

Wilson rolled his eyes, "No, of course you don't. You're the great Gregory House, nothing ever gets to you, and you have no problems, none whatsoever. Of fucking course. No, you just get up and runaway when you can't take it. You run – No, I'm sorry, you can't run." That one stung, he knew it; and he revealed in that fact, "So you drink, you _drug_ yourself up to the gills; to the point where you just can't fucking feel _anything_ anymore. Just like you. You fucking _coward_."

House narrowed his eyes at Wilson, his lips pursed as he tried to stay in front of the white board.

"What, you don't have a retort? C'mon! You've always got something smart-assed to say! What's wrong? Do the dead have your tongue? Or for once do you finally feel guilt." He stepped forward, and House took a half step back, "Did you finally have to kill a person to feel any guilt? Is that what it took? If so, I wish you never fucking learned to feel a damned thing."

"Don't blame me for this. I didn't kill her."

This enraged Wilson, "Of course you killed her! You killed her!"

"I didn't make her come pick me up. I tried to leave on my own, _safely_, on a bus. I didn't make her follow me." House was using all his might to keep his tone level, and steady, was almost amazed at the fact that Wilson didn't even seem to notice how slowly he was speaking.

"You may as well have! You wanted this to happen!"

"Oh yeah! I really felt like getting hit by a garbage truck that night!" He leaned forward toward Wilson, speaking in a stage whisper, "In fact, I secretly told Amber, to take that medicine t-too."

"Don't put the blame on her!"

It was getting harder to control himself, as he increasingly became more and more pissed with Wilson than he had probably ever been in his entire life. "And don't b-blame me!"

"You killed her!"

"I didn't k-kill her! I did everything I could to save her!"

"Not everything!"

"I did _everything_ you asked!"

"You didn't save her! You treated it as a puzzle!"

"I risked my life for you..."

"You risked your life for your puzzle!"

"_I r-risked my l-life for you!_" House finally cried, slamming his fist into his white board, sending it careening across the floor, landing on it's side just a few feet away.

The jarring noise caused them both to become silent, and neither said anything for a few moments, both trying to grasp their bearings.

Wilson was taken aback, however, and his eyes narrowed as stared at House, his mind reeling, trying to take it all in. He shook his head slightly, "What did you say?"

House gritted his teeth, doing his best to calm himself down. He didn't need to have a shouting match, his head was starting to hurt. His stutter making his way into his voice, he didn't need this now, after he tried so hard to conceal it. When he was calm, and spoke slower, he could control it. But now, his control was taken from him.

"You... you stuttered just now, and earlier." Wilson, exhaled heavily, "Didn't you?"

House remained silent, averting his gaze.

"What's wrong with you? Why are you - why are you stuttering? What..."

"I risked," House ground out slowly, "My l-life - my _b-brain,_" He winced at the sound of his own voice, "For you. And t-this is what it g-got me."

"What...? House, I don't understand."

House dragged his gaze away from Wilson, and stared pointedly at the white board that lay on the floor before them, before not looking at it at all. He couldn't stand to.

Wilson followed his gaze until it fell upon the toppled white board. He stared blankly at it, until finally, his eyes went wide and his lips parted at the sight. What was written, was scrawled there as if a six-year-old tried to write it, without being taught the correct spelling or how to write.

_**'Gregorey Howz'**_

"Did you write that, House?" His eyes didn't move from the board, but from his perception, he could see House give a small nod.

"I know t-that it's not right. _I fucking know that._" House shook his head, speaking softly, "B-but I can't remember. T-this is all that c-comes to mind. I can't s-spell much of anything, anymore. Much less my own n-name."

He finally looked at House, who in turn, would not look at him, "...Aphasia."

He watched as House's eyes darted back and forth, searching for the word, the meaning, and finally... come up with nothing. "I don't know what that means."

Wilson didn't believe it; he didn't want to. "C'mon! We were taught that in basic health class! You have to know what that means!"

House was silent, finally looking at his... friend? Co-worker? No, none of those, not any more. At least, not after this exchange. Just... Wilson. James Wilson.

"No, _James_," He spat, "I d-don't know what that means." He had stopped trying to hide his speech impairment a long time ago. "But, I guess I can inf... inf..." House gritted his teeth as he tried to grasp the word.

Wilson stared at him, speechless. He had no idea what to say. None whatsoever. Except probably the most stupid, "And you're... okay with this?"

He thought for sure, that House was going to be angry, enraged even. But what came next was nothing of the sort, and he not expected it at all. But he kept staring at him, his eyes never leaving his face, and suddenly Wilson wanted to look away, he was uncomfortable, but he could not bring himself to turn away from him. He couldn't do that to him, not now.

"I was. I was o-okay with it. I was angry, s-sad, depressed, you name it, and I f-felt it. One of the things that meant the world to me. One of the things that made me, me, is g-gone. But I was okay with it." House nodded slowly, his voice soft, as it almost always was whenever he spoke of himself, and things he never wanted to admit out loud. Only now, it was almost necessary that he do so, "As long as that meant you wouldn't hate me."

It was at those words, that Wilson felt literally sick. _"I r-risked my_ l-life_ for _you_!"_, Echoed suddenly, painfully loud, in his ears.

"...Me?" He managed. "You did this..." _For me? _He couldn't finish the sentence out loud. Gregory House was not selfless. He said it himself, many, many times.

But that night came washing back over him.

"You want me, to risk my life... for Amber's?" House had said, his voice clearly filled with uncertainty.

And Wilson had nodded, slowly.

House's gaze drifted downward for only a second before he looked back up at him, "Okay."

And he had agreed, without a second thought, without hesitation. It was done. Essentially, House offered up his entire being for Wilson's... happiness? Wilson couldn't comprehend this; this just wasn't something House did every day, for anyone. And most definitely never him.

So he asked the only thing he could, "Why?"

House sighed audibly, finally letting his eyes fall from Wilson's face. "Because, seeing you content..." He fiddled with his cane, not really knowing what to say, or rather, he knew what he wanted to say, but he didn't know how to word it. And it was not from, or because of his impairment, it was more so due to his natural nature, of being unable to say things like this, "Because, when you were happy, maybe my life wasn't as miserable." House blinked rapidly, casting his gaze up toward the ceiling, he wasn't sure if his eyes were watering or not, but he couldn't... "But now..." He glanced down at the cane he gripped in his hands, and suddenly, a tear fell from his eye, onto his hands. "Y-yeah..."

Wilson's mouth moved in an effort to make some sort of reply. To say something. Anything! _Speak!_ He commanded himself, but still, nothing would come. Still nothing came, even when House nodded his head, acknowledging the silence, and brushed lightly past him, out the door.


End file.
